Don't Know Whatchoo Got 'Til it's Gone

Katie and I left the boy behind this weekend. Quite the experience, really. We left 28 pages of detailed instructions with his babysitters and got on our plane to Shy-Town for Auntie Leah's gradu-ma-tation party. It's only 24 hours, it's only 24 hours, it's only 24 hours, we chanted as the plane took off. Later that day, at the party, when we realized that we were both sitting and eating, instead of one of us eating and the other chasing Max, we began to plot ways to make this work: have the kid, but not have the kid.

However, when we got home, Max saw us, ran into the porch, hopped on one of the wicker rocking chairs and got this ma-ma-ma-mega cute look on his face. We both dropped to our knees, crying and begged Max to forgive us. We explained plantively, as Max calmly eyed us, rocking in his chair, that we were sorry, we would never leave again, he was the cutest baby, that all we did while we were away was talk about him and babies in general (true) and he deserved better. At which point, Max hopped out of the chair, and gestured angrily, "That's right bitches!" He walked over to the CD rack, pulled every one of them onto the floor, "Now fill my sippy cup!" Powerless in the face of such cuteness, we had but to comply.

My Country 'Tis of Beer

Last year, about this time, you might have been able to question the boy's patriotism. Hey, it's great to love your Great-Grandmother and lie around naked, fewer things could be more 'Merican. This year, however, Max has pulled out all the stops.

I have no photographic proof but, right after this picture was taken, Max unfurled an American Flag, slapped a NASCAR sticker on his booty, went out to the sidewalk, found a couple of Canadian two year-olds and kicked their ass. Just to make sure there was a giant exclamation point on his holiday, right after the parade, Max climbed to the top of the knoll and placed a rack of about 10 thousand bottle rockets on the bonfire.

UPDATE:Fulfilling Katie's prediction: small amounts of brat and tiny, residual traces of beer result in some seriously potent diaper bombs.